<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>a little unsteady by guilt_is_for_mortals</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23468272">a little unsteady</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/guilt_is_for_mortals/pseuds/guilt_is_for_mortals'>guilt_is_for_mortals</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Magnus Archives (Podcast)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Depression, Developing Relationship, Eating Disorders, Hopeful Ending, How Do I Tag, M/M, Martin Blackwood centric, Pre-Relationship, Sad with a Hopeful Ending, Suicidal Thoughts, canon typical worms, character study with plot, triggering content</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-04-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-04-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 06:08:17</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,845</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23468272</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/guilt_is_for_mortals/pseuds/guilt_is_for_mortals</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p><em>For ten days now he had been a prisoner of his own four walls.<br/>A prisoner of that thing lurking just outside the door. Ten days.<br/>Jane Prentiss was still standing out there, knocking.<br/>Relentless.</em><br/>---<br/>Being trapped by an eldritch fear being for two weeks changes you.<br/>Martin has to come to terms with the fact that he might never be the same as he was before.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>47</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>a little unsteady</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>PLEASE BEWARE THE TAGS!<br/>Please do not read this if you could be triggered by the mention of disordered eating, depression or suicidal thoughts!<br/>Stay strong!</p>
<p>---</p>
<p>A very big THANK YOU goes out to Bloodsbane for beta-reading and to Lee and Andy for helping me find a title for this fic!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Martin buried his head under the thickest pillow he had been able to find in his flat. A futile attempt to block out the constant, merciless knocking that forced its way through the dark corridor into his ears. Incessantly. Unstoppable. Even if the soft material muffled it a little bit, it was always there, echoing inside of him as if it were now a part of his consciousness.<br/>
<br/>
</span>
  <span>He cried, once again, tears running down his cheeks. They joined the cold, damp patch of the mattress that Martin's face was pressed against. He wasn’t sure why he still had the strength to cry. He felt empty and weak and yet filled to the brim. Hunger pangs gnawing at his stomach, fear gnawing at his mind, consuming him until he was not sure which of them was physical and which only a trick of his own mind.<br/>
<br/>
</span>
  <span>For ten days now he had been a prisoner of his own four walls. A prisoner of that thing lurking just outside the door. Ten days. Jane Prentiss was still standing out there, knocking. Relentless. Martin had thought about opening the door. He had tried to persuade himself to open it and welcome death because it would mean an end to all of this. But Martin didn’t want to die.<br/>
<br/>
</span>
  <span>He turned onto his back, blinking to banish the burning in his eyes. He didn’t stop to press the pillow against his ears. His stomach growled. Just the thought of canned peaches, slimy, orange and unbearably sweet on his tongue, made him shiver. He had to eat something, but he couldn't. By now it disgusted him almost as much as the thought of the worms. Perhaps it was what he needed. The pain reminded him that he was still human, still here. Still alive.<br/>
<br/>
</span>
  <span>---<br/>
<br/>
</span>
  <span>A few days later Martin woke to deafening silence filling the room. It took him a moment or two to notice what was </span>
  <em>
    <span>wrong, </span>
  </em>
  <span>what made his nerves tingle and his stomach twist. There was no knocking on the door. No sound but the beating of his own heart, steadily against his chest. The one thing that hadn’t given up on him just yet. <br/>
<br/>
</span>
  <span>His brain had declared him a lost cause, his hands had lost any warmth that had been to them. Martin tried to remember when he had last not been cold. He didn’t know. He wasn’t even sure how long he had been here, days blurring into each other. Sleep didn’t come naturally to him anymore. His eyes would close, keeping them open too much of an exhausting task. He would drift off, his body taking the rest it needed against all his trying to stay awake, not sure if he’d wake up again. Not sure if he wanted to.  <br/>
<br/>
</span>
  <span>The world turned before his eyes as he lifted himself off of the mattress, arms shaking, knees weak and shaking. Right. His limbs seemed to have given up carrying him now. It had only been a matter of time until it all was lost. Nobody had come to look for him. Nobody. Martin knew that he didn’t have any </span>
  <em>
    <span>real </span>
  </em>
  <span>friends, no, and his mum would have been the last  person to miss him. But Tim and Sasha? They might see him only as a colleague, but hadn't they worried when he didn’t show up for work, day after day? Had they missed him at all? Just a little bit?<br/>
<br/>
</span>
  <span>What about Jon? He surely didn’t </span>
  <em>
    <span>miss </span>
  </em>
  <span>Martin, but still… Martin couldn’t help but imagine Jon turning up at his door, angry and disappointed as always, demanding an answer on why he had decided to not show up at work, telling him what an utter failure he was. What Martin would give right now to have Jon be mean to him again, yell at him, stare at him with those dark eyes. He wanted to compare them to chocolate, sweet and tempting, no matter how icy their glances might be. <br/>
<br/>
</span>
  <span>In the end, maybe it was for the best. Them not caring about him… had saved their lives. Had he been more important, had someone come to look for him, rescue him, they might have ended up dead. Until there was nothing left but a pile of silvery, slippery worms… <br/>
</span>
  <span>Martin ran into the bathroom, knees erupting in pain as he let himself drop onto the tiled floor and threw up into the toilet. The images of Tim, Shasha or Jon being attacked by Jane Prentiss left him shaking, mind racing, trying to think of something else, </span>
  <em>
    <span>anything </span>
  </em>
  <span>else.<br/>
<br/>
</span>
  <span>His eyes and throat burned, acrid taste on his tongue and tears on his cheeks. Slowly Martin lifted himself up again, hands firmly pressed against the sink, staring at himself in the mirror. Was it himself, still? He looked different. Sick. Skin almost unnaturally pale, blotchy red on his cheeks, dark circles under his eyes. A few splashes of water didn’t help with his appearance, but the cold felt nice against his feverish flushed skin. Only when he turned off the stream of water again he remembered what was wrong. Silence.<br/>
<br/>
</span>
  <span>Still no knocking. Was she gone? Had Jane Prentiss left him, just like that? Martin was sure that he would have been dead by now if she was </span>
  <em>
    <span>inside </span>
  </em>
  <span>the apartment, so it was the only logical conclusion. Right? <br/>
</span>
  <span>It took Martin another few hours to get himself to open the door. He had tried, hand hovering just an inch above the doorknob. Standing, frozen, not able to even touch it. Maybe it was a trick. Maybe she wanted him to open the door and she would stand there, waiting. He couldn’t open it. Martin decided he would have to get changed first anyways. If he was to leave the flat, he probably shouldn’t do it in the sweatpants he had been wearing for a week and stained t-shirt. <br/>
<br/>
</span>
  <span>So he swapped them for a pair of jeans that hung so low around his hips now that he needed a belt to stop them from falling down. </span>
  <em>
    <span>That is new</span>
  </em>
  <span>, he thought, not being able to remember a time when something he owned was actually </span>
  <em>
    <span>too big </span>
  </em>
  <span>for him. With a frown he picked one of the sweaters that usually sat a bit too tight for his liking, only to find that it now sat nice and loose around his stomach. Just the way he liked it. Maybe that’s what two weeks of eating continually less did to you. He might even have been happy about it, if he still felt capable of having positive emotions at all. <br/>
<br/>
</span>
  <span>---<br/>
<br/>
</span>
  <span>The outside was louder than Martin remembered. People talking, cars passing, gentle rain falling onto his face as if to paint more freckles on to his skin. The world had continued to spin while he had lain on his bed, trying to block every sound, to block every thought of what waited behind that cursed door. Laughter, footsteps on wet asphalt, a dog barking at a fire hydrant - they had never stopped. Martin just hadn’t been able to listen. <br/>
<br/>
</span>
  <span>He only realized that he stood there, frozen, when a woman gave him such a distinctly displeased look that he </span>
  <em>
    <span>felt </span>
  </em>
  <span>it more than he saw it. Martin slung his arms around himself, jumper already getting wet and cold, and hurried his way to the Archive. To Jon. He had to see Jon. Even though it hurt, knowing that Jon hadn’t cared enough to come looking for Martin. Even if he wouldn’t believe him. Jon had to know what had happened.  <br/>
<br/>
</span>
  <span>He was only halfway there when his knees shook so much he had to sit down. Martin didn’t care about getting any more wet than he already was. He hadn’t moved much for two whole weeks, he didn’t remember the last time he ate. His fingertips, prickling like pins and needles, his thoughts hazy, his insides growing sickly hot. No. He couldn’t collapse here. He had to get to Jon. He had to keep going. After a few seconds - minutes, hours? - he felt himself coming back to his whole senses, slowly lifting himself back up from the ground. There was a tube station nearby, but the thought of being underground, trapped under the earth, made him shiver. Earth filled with worms, white and thick and squirming- no. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Don’t think, Martin, just… walk.</span>
  </em>
  <span> <br/>
<br/>
</span>
  <span>Martin practically collapsed onto the stone tiled floor of the Institute’s entrance way. Rosie sat behind the counter as she did everyday since he remembered. She was still there. The world was still spinning. He was still alive. <br/>
</span>
  <span>“Martin!” Rosie hurried around the corner, her friendly face distorted with worry. <br/>
</span>
  <span>“I-.. Jon. Rosie, I need to see Jon.” She nodded, a deeply concerned look in her pale eyes, hand slightly shaking, reaching out to him but stopping just before she touched his shoulder. <br/>
</span>
  <span>“Sure, Martin, you… know the way. Are you feeling better now? Lost a bit of weight, but that’s just how that stomach issues go, I guess…” He only half registered that last sentence, had already turned towards to door, down the floor. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Lost a bit of weight. <br/>
<br/>
</span>
  </em>
  <span>---<br/>
<br/>
</span>
  <span>There was a takeout container in front of Martin. It was sitting there in the middle of his crossed legs and Martin didn’t know what to do. It would have been normal for him to open it and just eat it, the first real meal he would have had in weeks. It would have been normal, but nothing about his life was </span>
  <em>
    <span>normal </span>
  </em>
  <span>right now. <br/>
<br/>
</span>
  <span>Jon had believed him, which, ironically, was pretty unbelievable. Martin had told him his story and Jon didn’t laugh, didn’t get angry. Oh how Martin wished for Jon to be angry, to be in denial as he used to be. To not believe that there had been a worm-eaten lady standing outside Martin’s door for two weeks, knocking and texting Jon that Martin couldn’t come to work because he had </span>
  <em>
    <span>stomach issues.<br/>
<br/>
</span>
  </em>
  <span>Now Martin was sitting on a cot in a tiny storage room next to Jon’s office with a takeout container in his hands. His new home for… well, he would have to see for how long. It seemed like a special kind of torture, to be this close to Jon now, to have Jon look at him like this. To have Jon believe him. Why did it take him being attacked by a </span>
  <em>
    <span>monster </span>
  </em>
  <span>to have Jon take him seriously? </span><br/>
<br/>
<span>Martin opened the box in front of him, staring at the fried noodles in the container. </span>
  <em>
    <span>It’s normal, Martin. Take your chopsticks. Pick up some noodles. Eat them</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He managed to take five bites before the noodles started to move before his eyes, before they felt like worms, winding on his tongue and in his stomach. They were squirming through his insides, spreading a sick feeling through all of his body. He just so managed to reach the bathroom before he threw it all up again. Leaning his hot, tearstained cheek against the cold tiled wall, he wondered if he could ever be </span>
  <em>
    <span>normal </span>
  </em>
  <span>again. </span>
</p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>